Desperately
by Kitten Kisses
Summary: Done for the Five Senses Challenge at Livejournal. Fifth up: Taste. Where was André? She really wanted him, now. She wanted comforting words, a hand on her back, someone to tell her that it would all end soon. André and Oscar...as kids. Now as adults!
1. Touch

**Desperately  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

_The Five Senses Challenge!_  
Pairing: André/Oscar  
Genre: Friendship  
Warnings: None

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**_Touch_**

She found him by the apple tree. He wasn't there to eat, though. Her 8-year-old brain was able to understand that much about the boy that sat hunched by the trunk; his face was buried in his arms that rested on top of his drawn-up knees. No, her friend of just over a year was there for another reason entirely. But why?

Curiosity grabbed hold of her and compelled her to move forward a few steps, approaching him almost hesitantly. "André?"

When he didn't answer, she knelt next to him. Had he fallen asleep? She reached her hand out, her fingers coming into contact with the material of his shirt. She fully intended to shake him if he was sleeping, but something stopped her.

"André?" She peeked through the opening his arms offered her, and then stuck her hand in, letting it rest against the side of his face. He pulled away, and she looked down at her palm. It was damp. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," he mumbled, keeping his face turned just the smallest bit away from her.

"Nothin', huh? Well, if it's _nothing_, then why are you crying?"

No answer. This frustrated her to no end. Oscar had it in her to be patient, but more often than not, her temper took over. It definitely wasn't something she was proud of, but she might have been too young to give the immediate consequences some consideration before she acted. However, if there was one thing she _did_ know, it was that André, a year older and already a full head taller, didn't usually sit huddled under apple trees crying. Or did he? She realized that she might not know as much as she would like to about the young boy sitting in front of her.

But he was her friend, and friends told friends what troubled them, didn't they? So by not saying anything, it was like he was telling her that he wasn't her friend after all! How could he do that? She'd always considered him a friend…well, a fencing partner. But couldn't fencing partners be friends? Yes! She had no doubts about that.

"Dammit, André!"

Well, _that_ got his attention! He stared at her from beneath long, dark lashes that were slightly damp, his mouth opening and closing slightly. He drew his arms around his knees a little tighter and spoke, "Oscar!" he said. "You shouldn't talk like that!"

"And why not?" She stuck her chin out, narrowing her impossibly pretty blue eyes at him. "Father does it all of the time! And some day, I'm to be just like him!"

André lowered his head slightly, shaking it as he blinked at the ground, trying to rid himself of those last few tears that didn't seem to want to go away.

She folded her arms over her chest. "Only _girls_ cry like _that_, you know. Father says that crying is for women."

She immediately regretted her words. She hadn't been lying. No, she'd been telling him the truth. Monsieur de Jarjeyes, master of the house, had definitely been quick to inform her that only girls cried. And she vowed to do her best not to cry unless she could help it. After all…she was definitely _not_ a girl. Her father was certain to tell her all of the time that she was a boy. And she believed him, not knowing any better.

But she didn't expect André to stare at her, fresh tears dangerously close to falling. "What do you know about it?" he asked her, and he sounded depressed even though he obviously wanted her to think he was angry.

"I…" Did she even have a response? No, not really. What did someone say to someone else who was crying? Frustrated, she ground out, "Well, how am I supposed to know if you don't _tell_ me?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"Oscar! I said I didn't want to talk about it!"

"Fine!" She got to her feet and proceeded to start climbing the apple tree behind him. He'd tell her for sure if she brought him an apple, right? The boy loved to eat. He was always begging for food from Nanny, or picking fruit from the trees in the orchard. And if he still wouldn't tell her…well… Well, she'd drop an apple on his thick skull, that's what!

Climbing a tree while wearing boots probably wasn't the best idea she ever had, but she managed to climb up to one of the higher limbs where there were a lot of nice apples. "André," she said, carefully making her way back to a lower branch, her shirt full of apples for the two of them to eat.

"Oscar, you shouldn't be up there…" He turned to stand, wiping his face on one of his sleeves as he did so.

"Why not? I'm a boy just like you. If you can climb trees and pick apples, _so can I_."

It was then, distracted as she was from talking to André and holding her shirt close to her with apples in it, that she found the heel of her boot slipping against the bark. She didn't dare to let go of the apples, and there wasn't anything to grab to prevent her falling.

"Oscar!" He was at her side in an instant, perhaps less, brushing her hair out of her face and asking her if she was okay. "Did you break anything?"

She blinked a few times as she tried to catch her breath. "I think I'm okay," she finally told him, and he sighed in relief. She slowly pulled herself into a sitting position with his help, and sighed in dismay at two of the apples that had gotten away from her, now lying on the ground, most likely bruised.

"They're just apples," he said. "Don't worry about them."

"Here." She offered one from her now rather small stash consisting of two instead of four, and got to her feet.

He took the apple and bit into it distractedly. "That's going to hurt tomorrow," he informed her. "It's going to hurt a lot. It's a good thing this tree wasn't any taller, and that you didn't climb any higher. Granny would have had my head if anything had happened to you!"

She didn't laugh. "You never told me what was wrong."

He pulled the apple away from his face and swallowed what he was chewing before he spoke. He'd been reprimanded enough by his grandmother to know better than to speak with a full mouth, especially in front of nobility. "You'd just laugh."

"I would not!" She was indignant, and took a fierce bite out of her own apple, chewing before swallowing as she'd been taught her entire life. "I laugh at _funny_ things. If you were _crying_, it probably _wasn't_ funny."

Well, she was perceptive… he had to give her that much credit. He turned the idea over in his head, and finally decided to tell her. After all, he didn't want her to think he was crying over _nothing_, right? "I was thinking about my mum."

"Mum? André, _mother_, not mum." She crinkled her nose at him a little bit, but he just shrugged his shoulders at her.

"Fine, my _mother_, even though it doesn't really make a difference."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What were you thinking about?" She glared at him. He was trying to dodge her question, wasn't he? "What _about_ your mother?"

He leaned against the tree behind him and took another bite of his apple, taking his time answering her. "I was remembering that today was her…birthday."

"Oh." Oscar knew that his parents were dead, that his mother had died most recently…but she didn't know what to say to someone who reminisced about their mother on her birthday after her death. "I'm…"

"It's okay." He finished off the apple and tossed the core on the grass a few feet away from them. "She's not in pain anymore."

"But why were you crying, then?"

"I…" He swallowed, looking directly at her. "I can't remember her face very well anymore. I can't even remember the sound of her voice!" Tears were starting to fill his eyes, and she rushed forward, patting his shoulder awkwardly.

"Don't cry, André! Only girls cry… I think…"

He hugged her, then, wrapping his arms around her tightly as he took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

A few minutes passed, and Oscar tugged on the end of his short ponytail. "Are you okay, now?"

"Yeah." He pulled away, cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

"It's okay if you do," she told him in a matter-of-fact tone. "That's why I'm going to become a general of the military, just like my father! I'll be strong just like him."

He fell silent, merely looking at her through his clear green eyes.

"Is something wrong?" She narrowed her eyes, ready to throw one of the bruised apples—that was probably looked as bad as her back—at his face if he dared to insult the future laid out before her. Suddenly, her eyes softened, and she reached for one of the lower branches of the tree, right next to the trunk. "Don't worry, André. I won't leave you behind. I'll ask Father to let you accompany me. Every good leader needs a good right-hand man, right?"

"Thanks, Oscar."

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "I think we've got a few more minutes before it's time to get back to the house for some fencing practice… How about another apple?"

She started to haul herself into the tree, prepared to take on the challenge of acquiring two more apples, but the gentle touch of his hand on her arm stopped her.

"Let me," he said, his voice quiet. "You can't be a famous general if you kill yourself falling from a tree."

"But I'm smaller," she argued. "If I fall, you can just catch me, okay? Besides, as a great general, I'll still need my right-hand man nearby. If you fall, you'd probably smash me flat because you eat so much!"

"Fine, fine," he answered, moving to stand below her so that he could attempt to catch her should her boots slip again. Little did either of them know that he would be doing that for many years to come…

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

Instead of mourning the loss of our dear André on the 13th of July, let's celebrate his life! I'll bet he was absolutely adorable as a kid. And Oscar, too, though I can't imagine her as anything but stubborn. I wrote this as something that will hopefully balance out against all of the sad 'fics in this section. I went with the manga age of 8 for his arrival at the Jarjeyes estate, if you wondered.

Adieu, dear André! (And ah, as I write this, the sun is setting…)


	2. Sight

**Desperately****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

_The Five Senses Challenge!_  
Pairing: André/Oscar  
Genre: Friendship  
Warnings: None

* * *

**_...xOx..._**

_**Sight**_

It took her awhile to catch on. He never read, ever, and she'd known him for two years before she began to wonder about it. She assumed for awhile that he just did not like reading—after all, a lot of people found books to be as boring as embroidery, and she'd seen her mother embroider often enough to know that books were fascinating by comparison.

She loved getting lost in them. Reading about other people's lives and places she'd never been and would probably never get to see… Even the history of her own country! It was all interesting!

After fencing with André and working up a good sweat, she enjoyed sitting in her favorite chair in her small foyer, curled up with a good book.

She always invited him to join her, and he always accepted even if he had work to do. But after ten or fifteen minutes, he'd start to fidget, walking from the fireplace to the window. Then he would leave.

She was nine years old when she realized that her original theory of him actually disliking reading could not possibly be true. She was in her favorite chair on a chilly March afternoon, a blanket covering her, and she laughed at the book she was reading. She laughed less and less the older she got, and she didn't know why she felt so relieved to find that particular passage funny. But it was. Her amusement drove André to stand beside her, his expression confused.

"What's so funny?" he asked, looking from the book to her and back again. So she told him.

She told him, and before she knew it, she was reading the book to him from the beginning, and they were sharing her chair and her blanket. He insisted she sit on the inside of the chair, with her legs draped over the opposite side, and he would sit on the outside so that she wouldn't fall off.

She decided that since his feet were wiggling right next to her under the blanket on the arm of the chair, she'd use them as an armrest.

It wasn't very comfortable, so she smushed them under a pillow first.

She had never seen someone more intrigued by being read to, save for maybe a small child. After the book was finished, they sat together and talked about it until nearly dinnertime. Nanny was angry with André for not helping with setting the table, and Oscar was lightly reprimanded for not finishing her studies.

Both children went to bed without dinner, and both children thought it was worth it.

A few days later, Oscar received another book from her father, but she managed to finish her studies before she sat down with her book in hand and flipped it open. André was staring out of the window blankly when he heard her turn the first page, and instantly he was behind her chair, trying to peer over the top.

"Uhm…is that a good book?" he asked hesitantly.

Oscar grinned. She'd hoped he'd ask. "I don't know. I haven't started reading it yet."

"Oh." He just stood there looking and feeling awkward for a terribly long moment that consisted of complete and utter silence.

After he'd felt out of place long enough that she didn't appear to be too nice to him, she flipped her legs up over the other arm of the chair and sunk down into it, patting the space beside her under her blanket. "Sit down," she said. "You're going to listen to this story." She didn't say anything more; her do-it-or-else tone was enough to convince him. Not that he needed convincing, of course.

After all, time spent with Oscar when she wasn't trying to skewer him on the end of her sword was rare and hard to come by and so sickeningly nice. She read to him until he fell asleep, and even then, she kept reading and reading and reading.

He dreamed of the sound of her voice.

…_**xOx…**_

The very next day, one of Oscar's sisters went into labor, and Madame and Monsieur de Jarjayes were quick to tell Oscar that she had to go with them to wait for the baby to be born.

Oscar was not thrilled. Babies were cute, sure, but waiting around for hours and hours to see them wasn't really worth it. After all, it would be either a niece or a nephew. It wasn't like she was getting a brother or a sister.

Of course, wherever Oscar went, her shadow followed. She was hurriedly getting dressed as her father shouted up the stairs at her to make it snappy with a voice so loud it felt like it could shake the chandeliers. "It's going to be dull," she told André, who was waiting in the foyer with patience. "Since you're just standing there, would you get the book that Josephine sent me? I think it's called _La Nouvelle Héloïse_."

They were in the carriage before she realized that he'd grabbed the wrong book. The binding of _Lettres d'une Péruvienne _was looking up at her. It was a good novel, but…

"André," she whispered, nudging him from their spot across from her parents. The adults were engaged in excited conversation, and that left the two of them unnoticed, which was what Oscar preferred anyway. If they weren't paying attention, they couldn't find anything to yell at you about.

"What is it?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and smiling at her.

She held up the cover of her book for him to see. "This isn't _La Nouvelle Héloïse_," she said to him.

"Oh…" He looked away. "I'm sorry, Oscar."

She felt guilty, but at least she knew for certain now that the reason he didn't stick around when she read to herself wasn't because he didn't like books. "It's okay." She poked him a little until he looked up at her. "André."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to teach you."

"Hm?"

"You're going to learn to read and write."

…_**xOx…**_

She didn't know how her father might react to the idea of her teaching André how to read and write, but she didn't really care. He would spend days away from the mansion, and she decided that those times were probably best for teaching her very best (and only) friend how to both read and write.

After all, with her father gone, she had more time on her hands. She liked fencing, and sometimes she liked studying, but the arithmetic was getting quite complicated, and it gave her a headache just to think of it.

It was more important that André learned to read and write. After all, she could, and she was good at it _and_ a year younger than him. She wondered briefly why he'd never learned before, why nobody had ever bothered to teach him. But she didn't think about it for very long. First, she had to teach André his letters, and in order to do that, they needed to go somewhere nobody would bother them.

…_**xOx…**_

André's grandmother hadn't wanted them to go riding out by themselves. She always protested, but Oscar always shrugged her concerns off. They weren't kids anymore, right? They'd be fine. André was a little more hesitant though no less confident that they would be okay. After all, his grandmother had lost her daughter and son-in-law, and to lose either of her favorite children now would be too much for her.

He promised her that they would not go into the water, and she smiled and relaxed and told them to go ahead and have a good day, but to be certain to take some food with them in case they got hungry.

After a long, leisurely ride on the ponies that belonged to her father, they dismounted and unpacked their lunch.

"I think she wants me to put on some weight," Oscar groaned, completely stuffed after eating only a little bit.

"Does that mean I can have the rest?" André's eager expression made her giggle a little, but he didn't seem phased by the light sound in the least. Rather, he looked as if he enjoyed hearing it. "What? I'm still hungry!"

She laughed again, this time louder. "Glutton," she said. "Eat all you want, because you're learning your letters as soon as you're done."

She remembered learning her letters, and how bored she was during the entire process. A is for this, B is for that… It was all so tedious and ridiculous. She half-expected her friend to eat very slowly to delay the process, but he gulped everything down so fast she wondered if he tasted any of it at all!

"I'm ready, Oscar."

She nodded and grabbed a pointy stick, wrenching it off of another, bigger branch that had fallen out of the tree they were sitting under. She drew something in a patch of dirt that was nestled in between several roots, and then proceeded to point at it. "That's the letter _A_," she said.

He nodded. "A."

"Right. _A _stands for _animal._ Or…uhm…_apple!_" Beaming, she drew another letter beside it. "That's _B._"

He nodded again, his eyes focused on the strange figures drawn out in the dirt. "B."

"_B_ stands for…_ball._ Or _bath_."

He absorbed every word that came out of her mouth, and watched her draw in the dirt with such intensity that it almost broke her heart. She didn't know why seeing him so excited to learn something she'd always taken for granted and even loathed at times made her chest hurt so badly, but she could not deny that it did just that.

So she smiled and continued to try and teach him what she knew. By the end of the early afternoon, he'd learned the first five letters.

…_**xOx…**_

André was more eager to learn than anybody she'd ever seen in her entire life. Suddenly, she felt sick every time she thought, for even an instant, that she didn't want to study, that she didn't want to do her arithmetic, that reading textbooks and taking tests were more trouble than they were worth.

Because she'd picture him sitting there soaking up the letter _A_, and she'd wonder what the hell was wrong with her. She had so much, and for the first time in her life, it hit her. She was not treated the same way as André was.

She knew he was a servant. She knew she was a noble. But she never realized just how…how…

How _unfair_ it really was!

She stared at her textbook without seeing the pages, but then she remembered André, and that he was out helping in the gardens, and she felt guilt nearly overwhelm her. It just…it wasn't fair.

…_**xOx…**_

Weeks passed, and she borrowed paper from her father's office and ink, too, to teach him to write properly. He'd memorized the entire alphabet, and could write almost every letter legibly, but he needed practice.

So she read short stories aloud to him while he wrote out his letters in ink on the small table nearby. His tongue would poke out of the corner of his mouth and she would be sure to make fun of him for it in that way that only she could. Half teasing, half sweet and innocent. He didn't seem to mind too much. It occurred to her much later that he probably didn't care because he was learning something he never thought he'd get the chance to learn in his entire life.

It was like his golden opportunity! He wasn't going to waste it. He was getting an education (and yes, it was by a nine-year-old, but it was an education nonetheless), he was spending time with his very best friend, and he was hearing stories he hoped to some day read for himself.

Their ritual continued until General de Jarjayes suddenly noticed that there wasn't as much ink in his desk anymore, and…he couldn't find half the paper he thought he had stored in one of the bottom drawers. It could only be one person, he decided, and it was definitely not his wife.

Oscar was, to say the least, startled to find her father in her foyer one afternoon after she'd spent an hour fencing with André. He looked none-too pleased, and in his hand was a stack of paper with the alphabet carefully (and sometimes sloppily, though it was completely unintentional) written all over every last square centimeter of blank space.

He was tapping his foot impatiently, and Oscar stood in the doorway, dumbstruck for one long moment. Busted! But she was glad André was in the stables doing work he had been assigned, because this whole thing wasn't even his fault…

Not that anyone was really at fault, she thought. It wasn't _André's_ fault he didn't know how to read or write, and it wasn't _her_ fault that _she_ had to teach him because nobody _else_ would!

"Yes, Father?" she asked.

"What is this?"

She thought about lying. She really did. But she knew her father wouldn't believe that those letters were hers, because her handwriting wasn't quite so…bold and neat. He would know she was lying, and she could already write anyway, so why would she be practicing now?

"I'm teaching André to write." She looked him straight in the eyes, shoulders up and her back ramrod straight…just as he had always said a good soldier would stand. She knew if she showed any kind of weakness, it would only make him angry, and there was no sense in doing that. No, none at all. He was still perfectly calm despite the fact that he was unhappy. As an afterthought, she added, "And to read, too."

"Why?"

Well, she thought. That was a stupid question! "Because he doesn't know how." Okay, so she slipped in a bit of sarcasm there… It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, and she'd been switched enough times to know better, but she _knew_ that she was right and that she was doing the right thing.

"Oscar, my son, servants aren't supposed to know how."

Argh! She was frustrated. "Why not?"

"They just don't learn, Oscar. There doesn't need to be a reason." He set the papers down and shook his head. "Now stop this nonsense and don't keep André from his work with silly things like this."

"But…"

"Oscar." His voice was firm, his tone bordering on annoyed. "Servants don't learn to read and write because they will never need it. That's just how things are. Even Nanny can't read very well… She's been with us for years, but she's never _needed_ to read. She's helped raise kids, and she cooks and cleans. Reading and writing, my son, do _not_ factor in."

"But Father!"

"No! Stop wasting his time and yours. He. Is. A. Servant."

"I know, Father…but…isn't he here for me?"

"What are you getting at?" His patience was wearing thin, but so was hers.

"If he's my servant, I think I should decide what he does and doesn't do." She got the stubborn tilt to her chin from him, and she was certain to use it, too.

"Is that so?"

"Yes." She looked away but then met his eyes again. "That's what I think, Father. I think if he is willing to learn to read and write, he should be allowed to learn. It's not like you have to pay for a tutor for him, too, because I'm teaching him myself!"

The General paused and watched his dau—no, his son's indignant expression. It was the face of someone who was determined to get their way…not for selfish reasons, or to cover up for something they'd done wrong, but because it was truly what they felt was right. He could almost admit that he felt strangely proud of Oscar for defending something she felt was just. It was unusual for a stable boy to know how to read and write, but it wasn't… Well, it wasn't wrong, and it wasn't completely unheard of.

He lowered his eyebrows and pushed past her, leaving Oscar confused and a little worried, but mostly hopeful.

"I'll think about it."

…_**xOx…**_

Oscar didn't expect anything good to really come out of her encounter with her father, because good things rarely came about where General de Jarjayes was concerned. Sometimes a new book, but usually shouts and orders and You're-Not-Doing-This-Right's were what she thought of and expected to hear when she saw him. He loved correcting her fencing, loved besting her at fencing, and loved mocking her when she had a bad day at fencing. It was a good thing he didn't correct her papers, too.

She and André had risen early in the morning by chance, and when Oscar saw him in the corner of the kitchen where the servant's always ate, she came over to sit with him and told Nanny she'd eat there because André was going to fence with her before the General woke up and offered—though it would be more like _ordered_ her—to. So she ate breakfast with him, and they took their swords and fought as the sun bathed the lawn in glorious light.

She was breathing hard after winning against André—though he'd almost bested her that time—and she looked up as her father stepped out to greet her.

"Good morning, Oscar."

"Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, Sir." André hardly looked up at him from his position on the ground.

"André." The General nodded in acknowledgement of the young boy's presence, and turned back to Oscar. "Your tutor is here. I should hope that you will pay the strictest attention to him."

"Yes, Sir."

"Get going. He's already been waiting ten minutes for you."

"O-oh." She'd lost track of time completely, and she hadn't realized…

"Goodbye, Oscar," André said, standing slowly and dusting off his pants. "We can try this again later, maybe."

"Okay. I'll win again, though."

"Maybe." He grinned, but he seemed almost sad to see her go. Perhaps he enjoyed their time together far more than he ever let her know.

She started to walk off, but her father's voice stopped her in her tracks, and she turned around to see André making his way to the stables.

"Where are you going?"

"To the stables, Sir…"

"No, you're to go with Oscar from now on. You probably won't be able to catch up, but she presented your case to me and I've made my decision."

She watched André's mouth open in shock, and then she felt her heart flutter in her chest at the excited grin plastered on his face. Seeing him happy was… It was something else. She wondered if there was more she could do that would make him look so thrilled.

"S-Sir?"

"Go!" he said, firmly, clearly annoyed already. "He'll have been waiting twenty minutes by the time you get there!"

"Y-yes Sir!" He dashed off towards her as her father turned his back and marched into the mansion. Once her friend reached her, she noticed what looked like tears in his eyes. No, they were definitely tears, but her heart only fluttered again in joy at the sight of them.

"Oscar…"

She let him hug her, and she hugged him back. But only for a little while. There was no way she'd let André be late for his first lesson.

* * *

…_**xOx..**_

**Author Notes:**

_La Nouvelle Héloïse _was published in 1761 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

_Lettres d'une Péruvienne (Letters From a Peruvian Woman)_ was published in 1747 by Françoise de Graffigny.

I took Artistic License with André's inability to write and read, though in most places, servants did not know how to do either, and it's likely that André came to the Jarjayes Estate without knowing how. And like General de Jarjayes tells Oscar—the ability to read and write is not needed for a servant. Why? They're there to work, and that's it.

It sounds terrible, but that's how things were. Obviously, I tried painting Oscar's father in a slightly better light, here. After all, he had to have approved of André getting an education, and what better reason than Oscar's interference? Comments, criticism, and feedback are all very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

This chapter was done most especially for Xirysa, and she should know why.


	3. Smell

**Desperately****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

_The Five Senses Challenge!_  
Pairing: André/Oscar  
Genre: Friendship  
Warnings: None

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

_**Smell**_

The barn was a safe haven. For ten-year-old Oscar, it was mostly thought of as the only place General de Jarjayes would not go. He absolutely, positively, resolutely _refused_ to do more than open the barn door to order a horse saddled or a carriage prepared, but even occurrences like that were few and far between.

The young girl who tried to act like a pint-sized man could often be found sitting on a bale of hay, postponing punishment for something done wrong.

In fact, the stables were where she made her first (and only, though she'd never tell anyone that) friend. She'd had straw in her hair and dirt on her breeches when she met André. She remembered throwing a rapier down at him, requesting that he spar with her, and it had happened quite some time earlier, but she supposed that meeting him in the hall did not count, because that first day, she had only become acquainted with a kid named André.

In the stables, among the horses and the grain and the tack, were where she had truly met the not-yet-a-man boy that was sensitive and sweet and strangely mature for his age.

She could admit that on that particular day, and all of the ones that followed it, she felt a love for him that beat from the very depths of her heart. They had some kind of connection, perhaps even blessed and graced by God Himself.

For André, eleven years old and quite the handsome young fellow, the barn meant work. He fed the horses, carried water from the well to them even in the wintertime, no matter how bad the weather, he brushed and combed and curried them and rubbed them down every day, day after day.

And as the youngest stableboy, he was also assigned the task of mucking out the stalls. It was one of the dirtiest, messiest jobs at the Jarjayes Estate, but he couldn't complain.

At least he had a place that he could call home.

He was shoveling manure on a hot summer day when he noticed Oscar perched on the edge of the hayloft, her legs swinging slowly back and forth.

"Your shoe is falling off," he said to her, embarrassed that he had not seen her sooner and wondering if she had heard his humming. No, if she had, she'd surely be teasing him by now, he thought. After all, the tune was one she practiced on her piano every day.

"I was in a bit of a hurry." She lifted one foot to pull her shoe up and over her heel before letting it drop again. "Actually," she panted, fanning her face, "make that a very big hurry."

The pitchfork found itself embedded into a pile of straw as André leaned against it. "What did you do this time, Oscar?"

"I didn't do anything," she sniffed, turning her nose up in indignation. "It was Chase's fault. I was only trying to get him out of the house."

Chase was a large, clumsy, not-very-bright dog that Oscar had found while wandering around postponing another punishment—for sleeping in—and the creature had followed her home. Chase did nothing but…well, chase things. It was all he did. He chased rabbits, squirrels, the barn cats…even Oscar herself!

"Before your father saw him?" André asked, shaking his head as he resumed his work.

The dog would run until he got tired, and then he would flop down on the ground and not move an inch until he felt like it. The mental image of Oscar attempting to push a dog as big as her out of the mansion put a smile on his face.

"Yeah. But…he saw him anyway."

André winced. "What did he say?"

"I don't know." Her legs stopped swinging, and she drew them up against her chest. "I came here before I could find out what he had to say about it. In fact, by the look on his face, I estimate that I should stay here until sometime next week."

In other words, he thought, she had taken off at a dead run and had not looked back. Not that he blamed her. "You can't do that, Oscar."

"Can't I?"

She was challenging him. Well, he wasn't going to bait her. No, the longer she postponed her punishment, the worse it would get. And after the broken china incident, he wasn't about to let her do that to herself again. Of course, that had been Chase's fault, too.

He decided to divert the conversation back to Chase. "So, what did that dog do this time, then?"

"…W-well, first, he got into the house…"

That meant the slobbering animal had knocked Oscar down and most likely practically trampled her to get inside.

"And then he found Father's bedroom." She hugged her legs closer to her and suppressed a very obvious shudder. "I found him before Father did, but not before Mother. That dumb dog knocked over that vase that Grandmother gave her before she died and it broke into a thousand little pieces. She was crying and saying it was all she had left and now it was gone…"

Guilt was practically radiating off of the blonde girl.

"But that's not all. He decided to do his business on Father's new rug, too."

André winced and dumped a load of manure into the wheelbarrow. "That can't be good…"

"I shouldn't have let him inside," she said.

"Oscar, it's not your fault."

"I'm the one who let him in."

"No you didn't. You and I _both_ know that he knocks you down to get you inside of the house!" He leaned the pitchfork against the side of the last stall and wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of a sleeve.

"He does not! I'm big enough that I could have pushed him back out!"

André shook his head. She was lying to him, but he would ignore it for now. It was only her pride talking… There was no way she could push that dog anywhere, but then again, he could only barely make it move, himself, so it wasn't as if she was being weak. "Okay, Oscar," he told her, and took the handles to the wheelbarrow. "I have to dump this, and then I have to pull some weeds in the garden."

She only blinked at him. He supposed it was an acknowledgement.

"Don't stay out here too long or you'll make yourself sick."

She snorted. That meant that she'd eventually leave, probably after she assumed it was safe to go hide somewhere else. By then her father would be done looking for her and would wait patiently (which was actually scary, because General de Jarjayes was always terribly angry when he was patient) until she bothered to show herself.

How bad her punishment was going to be always determined how long she would decide to hide from her father. She probably would not show up again until after dark this time.

He sighed and glanced back at the barn worriedly. Mentally, he filed away things he needed to do before that happened. He had to save Oscar something to eat from his own dinner, because he doubted she'd be given any, and then he would have to check and see if there was any antiseptic, if there were clean towels, bandages, and—oh, yes—he would have to draw her a bath, too.

It wasn't a big deal to him—he'd do anything for her—but he still worried about her a little bit. After all, she was too small and thin to be considered a "boy", but she was still punished like one.

Actually, when he thought about it, she was punished more like a man, because even he—a year older and a lot bigger—did not receive punishments that inflicted anywhere near the same amount of damage.

The manure was dumped, the wheelbarrow returned to the tool shed, and he was bending over a flowerbed at the west side of the house when he heard it.

The loud explosion made him jump into the air, and the weed in his hand fell to the ground as his head jerked up in shock. He knew exactly what that sound was, and he knew that Oscar did, too. The real question was, did Oscar know what it meant?

He did, and he took off at a dead run to the back of the house. He found what he knew he would fine; General de Jarjayes barely paid him a glance when André saw the gun and the dog.

He had been right.

"Take care of it."

It was all the general said to him before he left, and André stared blankly for quite some time at the mutt that had followed Oscar home. It was hard to believe that the same creature that could knock down the feistiest girl he knew would never even stand again.

Chase was dead.

Surely, Oscar would be…

Ah, yes. There. The sunlight passed over the trees, and when the wind blew just slightly, it caught Oscar's light hair and made it look like burnished brass. She was easy to spot even though she was partially hidden behind a tree, clearly still in shock, her lips parted slightly as she gaped at the corpse of her pet.

André blinked, and then she was gone. He wanted to go after her, but… He looked over at the still form lying on the ground and shook his head. He had been given an order, and even though he only answered to Oscar concerning most things, he had no choice but to do as his master demanded. He had, after all, provided him with a roof over his head, good food, and Oscar's almost constant company. He really did not need anything else.

So he dragged Chase as far away from the house as he could, and in an hour, he'd moved him quite far. André was not certain of how the general wanted him to dispose of the animal's body, so he left him underneath a small tree after gazing down at his familiar grey fur for quite some time.

He would ask at dinnertime, and if the general wanted him to bury the dog, he would. After all, the man might not want a huge hole dug in his yard for a dog he did not even like, and André thought it best to be especially careful about everything and anything concerning the master of the Jarjayes Estate. It was better that way, and he was sure it was one of the reasons he still had a roof over his head and a spot at the table in the kitchen along with the other servants.

…_**xOx…**_

The general did not care how André chose to dispose of the animal, as long as he never had to see it again, and he was grateful for that. He set off for where he'd left Chase after answering the master's question of where Oscar was with an, "I don't know," since it was the truth, and after wrapping a couple of pieces of buttered bread. She would probably be hungry; many hours had passed since he'd seen her in the barn.

It only took him fifteen minutes to walk to where he had left the body compared to the hour it had taken him to drag it there.

He was surprised to see Oscar there, shovel in hand, digging a hole herself. He tried to remember how much time had passed exactly since he'd left, because Oscar looked like she'd spent the entire time working on shoveling. Her hair was mussed badly, her clothes and face streaked with dirt, and she looked absolutely exhausted.

He said nothing to her. He only stepped forward and held his hand out for the shovel, which she did not give him. In fact, she acted as if he wasn't even there, displacing shovel-fulls of earth and grass and ignoring his very presence.

Finally, he lost his patience. "Oscar," he said. "I'll do it."

She spared him a fleeting glance, and he could tell that she'd been crying. He chose not to comment on that, though, because it would only upset and embarrass her, and he knew it would cause a temporary rift between them; that was something he himself could not handle.

"Come on, let me have the shovel." He placed his hand on the handle, but she jerked it away from him.

"I can do this _by myself_," she said quietly, though very insistently.

He sighed. "You'll make yourself sick out here in the heat. I brought you something to eat."

The sun was beginning to sink into the west, and Oscar stopped her work long enough to notice the handkerchief in André's other hand. Well, she did feel a little hungry…

She let him take the shovel, and she grabbed the bread out of his hands and devoured it in only a few quick bites. They were the worst eating manners he'd ever seen her display.

"Go get some water, too. You're sweating and you look like you're about to faint."

"Men don't faint," she said, glaring at him. But she sounded weak, anyway.

"Just do it…please, Oscar. And when you come back, you can keep digging if you want."

"Okay." She kneeled next to her dog's body and played with one of his floppy ears for a moment before patting his neck and hauling herself back to her feet. "I'll be back soon…"

But she didn't come back. Even after the dirt covered the grave and he found some flowers from the gardens that he was certain no one would notice missing to transplant there, she did not show up.

And he had a bad feeling about it.

…_**xOx…**_

The house was eerily silent, and after checking his own room and Oscar's room, only to find them both empty, he determined that there was really only one place that she could be.

He finally found her curled up in the furthest corner of the hayloft, a ratty old blanket pressed against her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, rolling over to face him when he sat down next to her. "Father caught me when I was trying to get some water." Sighing, she moved the blanket away from her mouth and draped an arm over his legs, letting her head rest on the one closest to her.

"It's okay. I finished." As an afterthought, "Did you get any water?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

She was silent.

"Oscar?"

"I took care of it myself."

"But Grandma could ha—"

She cut him off. "She cries every time she sees. I already made Mother cry today." She let her eyes flutter closed. "So I thought I'd just do it myself."

He wanted to pat her back comfortingly, but he really couldn't…

"Did you bandage it or just wash it off?"

"I couldn't find the bandages, so I just washed it off. It'll be okay like that, right?"

"I don't know… Let me see."

"Nanny would be angry with you for saying that," Oscar said, but slowly sat up anyway.

"She gets angry about _everything_," he answered, and gently lifted the back of her shirt to assess the damages.

"I guess that's—ow!" She jerked out of his grasp and half-glared at him, peeling the collar of her shirt away from the back of her neck.

"He got the back of your neck?" André could hardly believe it. He pulled her shirt partially over the top of her head and prodded around the wound.

"It was an accident… I think."

"It looks really bad, Oscar." It was red and the skin slightly swollen. "What did he hit you with?"

She did not answer him.

"Oscar…"

"They're battle scars," she shrugged, and he let her shirt fall to cover her skin before he could think to look at the other small scars that decorated her otherwise lovely skin.

Silence fell over the two of them, but Oscar continued to stay seated instead of resuming her former position, and André sighed and leaned back against the wall. "I planted some flowers for him," he told her, knowing she would understand what he was talking about.

"Really?"

"Yeah, nobody will know they're missing. He was a terrible pet, but a good dog. I think he deserved 'em."

"Thank you…"

Impulsively, he leaned forward and hugged her, only barely letting himself touch her for fear of hurting her at all. "You're welcome."

She squirmed. "What's this for?"

"Because you look like you need it."

"Well I don't."

"Maybe _I_ do."

"That's not very manly, André."

"So?" He let her go and leaned back again, closing his eyes as he blew his bangs out of his face. Granny would insist on cutting them soon…

"André?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." She hugged him, and he hugged her back a little.

"What's this for?" he asked, mimicking her earlier reaction to his hug.

"For you," she said. "Because I certainly don't need it." She pulled away and settled into the hay next to him. "I think I miss him…"

"That means you loved him." He patted her head a little. "Your hair's all tangled up…"

He ran his fingers through it, trying to unknot her slightly curly blonde hair. "And you've got straw in it, too…or maybe hay?"

"Straw smells warm," she murmured. "You know, like a summer day…or something. Hey, André, do you think Father will be angry with me for sleeping our here, tonight?"

"There's not even a pillows out here, Oscar."

"I'll use you, then. You'll make a good pillow."

"Gee, thanks." He rolled his eyes and laid down completely, his head cushioned by a small pile of straw. "Hurry up and get comfortable so I can get to sleep. I have to do all the weeding tomorrow since I didn't get it all done today."

She curled over onto her side and held her blanket close to her face, cushioning her head on his stomach. She was right—he did make a good pillow.

"You smell like hay," she whispered, burying her nose in the material of his shirt.

"I fed the horses earlier," he replied, his voice quiet as he absently tugged on a bit of her hair. "Now go to sleep so we can get up on time."

"You smell like hay and horses."

"I know."

"I like it." She sighed, and after a short pause, he realized that she had fallen asleep. She was probably exhausted from bawling her eyes out earlier in the day over the death of her dog. Or perhaps simply over the fact that her own father shot her dog, killing him.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

For eleven-year-old André, the stables stood for work, but even so, the place held a lot of precious, calming memories, like of Oscar, using him as a pillow, her hair spilling over his chest, her warm breath soaking through the material of his shirt on a hot summer night.

For Oscar, the stables were security. André was always there, and the air smelled like him—of horses and straw and hay and warmth. Every time she smelled any of those smells—together or individually—she found herself looking around for him.

Especially when she found herself in dire need of a pillow.

Because really, he made a wonderful substitute.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

Behold, the worst _Rose of Versailles_ 'fic I've ever written. There's no plot, no…nothing. Ugh. I hate this. But I must admit- my original idea was far different from what you just read. I don't know how it turned into this. But it did, so I'm posting it.

Feedback is appreciated!t


	4. Hearing

**Desperately****  
By: Manna**

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

_The Five Senses Challenge!_  
Pairing: André/Oscar  
Genre: Friendship  
Warnings: None

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**_Hearing_  
1769**

"Gosh, André," she said. "Your voice is so deep now…_some_ of the time!"

He half-wanted to wipe that irritating smile off of her face—she knew how embarrassed he got when she teased him—but at least she was smiling.

"I can't help it, Oscar," he replied, the pitch of his voice going up as he spoke her name. "It's not my fault."

"Neither are your big feet or your scarecrow legs, but they're still funny. And you make it so easy!"

"You're just jealous because you haven't grown more than half an inch in the last year." She glared at him, so he continued, his voice gradually settling for an almost raspy tone, "You were taller than me for a little while, but you only got a head start 'cause you're a girl. Too bad for you that _girls_ stop growing before boys!" His last word was terribly squeaky, and he felt his cheeks heat up when the sound reached his ears.

"Whatever, André. I'm still a bigger man than you are."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"But you're a girl—" Aww! That squeak again!

"Who is a year younger than you _and_ a bigger man." She smirked, "Now, what does that say about _you_?"

"Prove it."

"Prove what?" She looked so innocent that it was almost cute. Almost. There was a little she-devil underneath that angel disguise, he was certain.

"That you're a bigger man than I am."

"How? Fencing? You know you'll lose."

"Don't be so cocky; I could win, little one." He shrugged and grinned at the annoyed look that flickered over her face at his latest nickname for her.

"Just because I'm smaller than you doesn't mean…"

Damn, she was feisty!

He grinned. "Just get your sword and meet me by the tree. We'll see who the bigger man is."

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

"If you weren't so clumsy, you might have a chance at winning against me. A very slim chance, but a chance nonetheless."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"That's so childish, Oscar." Argh, that squeak!

"It's hard to take you seriously when you sound like a mouse who's been caught by a cat." She sheathed her sword and flopped down under the shade of the oak tree before she flexed a muscle at him.

He almost laughed because he couldn't tell the difference between her arm normally, and her arm when she was flexing it. "Put some effort into that, Oscar…" He squeezed her arm and grinned. "It's squishy."

"Like you could do better!"

"I can, and I'll prove it!" He flexed his own arm, and let her poke at it. "See, while you read in front of the fireplace, I'm carrying bales of straw and hanging tack in the stables. You know, _men's_ work."

"I can do that just as easily as you can!"

"Oscar, a bale of straw weighs more than _you_ do!"

"So? _You_ weigh more than I do, and I can still kick your a—"

She was cut off by him scooping her up and casually tossing her over his shoulder. Like a sack of potatoes.

"Now what are you going to do, Oscar?" He laughed, but it got stuck in his throat and died off as she smacked his back. It hurt, but not enough to make him let her go.

"Put me down _this instant_, André!"

"_Now_ who's the bigger man?" he teased, but the horrid squeak ruined his sentence.

"Me, of course! Now let me go!"

"Mm…let me think about it…"

She stopped squirming. "I'll go horseback riding with you if you let me down." She sounded so innocent that he couldn't help but do as she said.

Well, at least he was kind enough to set her back on her feet instead of dropping her onto the ground, even though the idea was rather tempting.

"Let's go right now," he said.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

The walk to the barn was relatively quiet, which André was thankful for.

It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to talk to Oscar… it was more like…he was afraid that his voice would squeak and embarrass him in front of her (again), and she would tease him, and he would blush, and then she would tease him more. It was a never-ending cycle, it seemed…

So it was just better to keep his mouth shut, he thought.

So while Oscar casually leaned against a column, he saddled the horses quickly, even though it wasn't fast enough for her.

"I don't have all day, you know."

He sighed. "I know, Oscar."

"I have other things I have to do, too."

"Yes, yes… I'm hurrying, Oscar. I have a thousand chores to do, myself." He sighed, feeling a bit dejected. She sounded like she didn't even want to be around him! "L-Look, if you don't want to go riding with me, you don't have to. I know you've got _better_ things to do."

She snorted. "I didn't say that."

"You _implied_ it."

He was hurt, or at least his feelings were. He was upset because he couldn't even speak without his voice getting all squeaky and ridiculous sounding, not to mention Oscar could probably tell that he felt let down, and he hated the thought of her knowing.

"_You're_ just being too sensitive!" She crinkled her nose and folded her arms over her chest. "I wouldn't have agreed to go riding with you if I did not want to."

"I'm sorry. I'm just tired…you're right."

"You're tired because you keep growing," she shrugged. "It's not your fault."

He half-smiled at her and fastened the girth on her horse's saddle, hurriedly grabbing the reins when the animal nervously stepped to the side and whinnied, clearly upset about something.

"That's it, right?" she asked, and when he nodded, she turned and left the building through the large double doors, letting the sun stream through them as she left them hanging open. He sighed and petted the white mare's nose until she calmed down, and then took the bridle of his own faithful horse and led the two of them out into the bright sunlight.

Chevis danced and snorted eagerly when he was out in the fresh air, but Lena swished her white tail and tossed her pretty head, still taking anxious steps.

Normally, he would have held Lena's reins until Oscar was in the saddle. His best friend was noticeably shorter than him, and of course, most men, and it took a lot of effort to swing into the saddle because she had to lift her leg so high to put her feet in the stirrups. But Chevis was so eager to get moving, sensing a nice long run in the wind, that André was almost afraid he would take off without them if he didn't quiet him down beforehand.

"Here you are," he said to her, handing her the reins and stroking Chevis's brown velvety nose in a calming manner. "Be careful, Oscar… She seems a little skittish this afternoon."

She smirked, putting her foot into the stirrup and moving a little to match the nervous sidestepping of her mare. "That's because you probably grew an inch overnight and she doesn't recognize you." She slipped her other foot into the remaining stirrup and stood over the saddle, reaching forward to straighten the reins.

Lena shook her head and twisted it, stamping her hoof against the grass.

He wanted to tell her that she was incorrect, that there was probably something wrong…because horses had an instinct like that. But when he spoke, only her name came out, sounding raspy and then squeaky toward the end, "Oscar!"

Before he could continue, before he could finish his sentence, she let herself fall into the saddle. It happened all too quickly; he was certain that neither one of them saw it coming. The moment she planted herself firmly into the saddle, Lena's eyes rolled back into her head and she kicked, throwing Oscar right out of her saddle and into the air.

André didn't have time to do anything. Chevis peered around behind him anxiously while Lena neighed and kicked again.

He didn't bother to worry about the horses. The sound of a light _snap_ echoed in his mind as he ran toward the fallen girl.

"Oscar! Oscar!" He fell onto his knees beside her as she tried to sit up, a hand pressed against the side of her head. "Are you okay?" Mentally, he slapped himself. Obviously she wasn't!

She blinked a few times and after several long seconds had passed, she peered up at him, her head cocked slightly to the side. "What…happened?"

"Lena threw you." He dug into his pocket for a handkerchief, and finally procured one. Gently, he moved her hand out of the way and dabbed at the small trickle of blood that was making its way down her head by her temple.

"I don't feel well."

"Of course not, Oscar," he said, still looking at her head and trying to keep the blood from getting into her hair. It was likely that she had hit her head on a small rock in the grass, he thought. "You were just tossed ten feet into the air."

"No," she murmured, eyebrows lowering as she thought, "I don't think…"

André pulled away and pocketed his handkerchief again as he watched her face intently. Her eyes were unfocused, which either meant she was dizzy, delusional, or in a lot of pain. Maybe even all three.

Suddenly, she choked as tears flooded her eyes. "A-André, it…" she bit her lip and reached a hand down toward her feet as she swallowed, squeezing his leg with her other hand. "It really hurts."

His gaze flickered down at the same time hers did, and he could only blink at the sight. Oscar moaned in fear or pain or confusion and shortly after slumped against him, her fingers gradually losing their grip on his leg. He'd seen her faint before for various reasons, but it was still awkward. He could only be thankful that she hadn't fallen on the ground…

He pulled her torso up and away from him and tried to wake her to no avail. She was out, and she was out _cold_. His breath caught in his throat and he had to force down his gag reflex when he tried to look at her leg again. It was bleeding, and he was afraid to check to see what it looked like, but he really didn't have a choice.

Blushing a little—he really didn't have the time or the concentration to let himself blush worse—he let her head fall back against his chest and he leaned forward to gently take her shoe off and pull the material of her pants away from her skin. She moaned and twisted her head into his shirt as he peeled it up to reveal a little bit of her calf bone sticking out.

Broken. Splendidly broken, actually. He sighed and scooped her up, trying his best not to jostle her or press his hand against her broken leg. He hoped that her father would not be around; he couldn't help but think that the man would want to wake Oscar up just to tell her to take it like a man.

Nanny would most likely insist that he go after the doctor, but… He didn't want to leave her. Not now. It was mostly his fault, anyway. He'd send someone else, and then he'd have somebody take care of the horses.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

He was careful to keep from letting her leg move around too much as he carried her inside; the image of bone poking out through her flesh was firmly imprinted in his mind. As soon as he entered the mansion, he encountered a few startled maids and one of the other menservants. The manservant went straight for the door to get the doctor, and one of the maids went to find his grandmother. He started to head toward Oscar's room to lay her down when the remaining maids let out horrified shrieks.

They must not have seen all of the blood until he turned, he thought as one of the women fainted. Their loud screams seemed to rouse Oscar from her dreamless sleep, and the young blonde squirmed uncomfortably in his arms, her eyelashes fluttering as she tried to bring herself back to a state of consciousness.

He ran into the first bedroom he came across, and as gently as he was able, deposited her onto the bed. Shortly after, as he smoothed her bangs back off of her forehead, he heard the door open behind him.

And then a loud scream pierced through his ears, "André!" his grandmother yelled, her eyes wide with horror at the sight of the youngest de Jarjayes child lying prone on the bed, bloody and unconscious. "What did you do?!"

"Grandma! Lena threw her…" He looked down at her to see her blue eyes open; she was blinking confusedly.

"Oh my… Oh my!" She hustled out of the room after giving Oscar's still-limp hand a squeeze, and André assumed she was going to boil some water. The doctor would need it when he arrived to set Oscar's obviously broken leg.

"Wasn't I just—" she gasped, sucking in air as the pain from her broken leg infiltrated her mind. "W-wasn't I just outside?"

"I carried you in." He sat on the edge of the bed, hoping that she would stay focused on him and not the bright white of her calf bone that was puncturing through her leg.

"I could have walked."

He sighed, "Oscar, your leg's broken. You couldn't have walked."

"I could have!"

"Oscar…"

She looked at him. Her eyelashes were wet with unshed tears, and André pretended not to see them. Instead, he took her hand and squeezed it lightly, pulling his handkerchief out to dab away the blood that had begun to run down her temple again in a slow trickle.

"I won't tell your father that I carried you inside." He flushed crimson as his voice managed to catch and squeak on several words, but for once, it didn't seem to phase Oscar.

"T-thank you…" She blinked at him and smiled as much as she could manage with a piece of her own bone sticking out of her skin.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

It took an eternity for the doctor to arrive, André thought, but it must have seemed longer to Oscar. She'd long ago resorted to closing her eyes and taking long deep breaths to try and take the pain without her eyes watering.

He wondered if she was trying to be brave, or if she really just wanted to burst into tears right there with him and Nanny and the doctor in the room. Perhaps. He thanked God Monsieur and Madame de Jarjayes were out having tea with another count and his wife, which left Oscar without parental support, though it was something she could definitely do without.

Doctor Lassone shook his head and adjusted his glasses, his fingers prodding all around the break. "I'll need that boiling water now, Marron," he said, looking at André's grandmother. "I'll have to open it up a little further to be completely sure that it will heal correctly. That bone is going to have to go back in there somehow…"

He could sense Oscar's nervousness. The palm of her hand began to sweat, and she winced, though he was the only one looking close enough to notice it. When Nanny left, the doctor turned to Oscar.

"How did you manage this one? I think this might be worse than that fever you had when you were three years old. It's a terrible break!"

Feebly, Oscar squeezed André's hand, and he understood that she either could not speak, or she didn't trust herself to speak—she was hurting too much. So he spoke up. "Her horse threw her, Sir."

"Oh?" The doctor peered at him from over the rims of his glasses, and André almost felt like he was being reprimanded for speaking in his master's place. "And why is that?"

"I-I don't know…Sir." He swallowed. "She just…as soon as Oscar sat in the saddle she…"

"Ah, I see." The good doctor busied himself pulling medical supplies out of his bag while André watched him, absently stroking the back of Oscar's hand with his thumb. "Did you check the blanket, both sides, completely, before you put the saddle on?"

"I…" He thought back. He was in such a hurry to get things finished that he hadn't…he'd only put them on. "N-no, I guess I didn't…"

"There was probably a burr or a thorn in the blanket, and when little Oscar here let herself fall into the saddle, it gave her mare quite a shock!"

André hung his head, ashamed, but Oscar gave his hand a small squeeze that he could barely feel, and he looked over at her to see her eyes half-open as she watched him.

_It's okay_, she mouthed, and tried her best to smile.

He felt absolutely miserable, but flashed her a smile in return and lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. She probably would have protested, but she only shifted her head, turning it further into the pillow.

After almost fifteen minutes of silence, the doctor spoke up again, "Why isn't she in her own room?"

"This was the closest one to the door."

"Your own room?" His eyebrows rose questioningly.

André took in his surroundings—the simple sheets and single blanket on the bed, the one pillow, the plain curtains and the bureau with only two books resting on top of it. "I didn't realize…"

"It's fine," Oscar said, not looking at either of them, clearly dreading what was certain to come.

Nanny came back through the door, shutting it behind her to keep the nosy maids and servants away, and set the required pan of boiling water on the hardwood floor. "Here you go, Doctor."

"Thank you. Now, let's get started, shall we?"

"Aren't you going to give her anything for the pain?" Marron looked absolutely horrified, giving the knee on Oscar's good leg a gentle squeeze.

"Now, you and I both know what the General said…" he answered, referring to Oscar's father's order that she should, in short, "take it like a man". He paused, looking at the break in her leg again, and shook his head. "But this… Oscar, dear, if you want something for—"

"I don't need it." Her voice was clipped and short; obviously, she was still in a lot of pain. But she was being stubborn.

André knew she was doing it to prove herself.

"Are you certain?"

"I don't need it!"

He held her hand and shook his head, feeling nervous pressure pushing in from around his ribcage. He wanted to tell her to take the stupid medication, her father be damned, but he knew better than to say something like that, so he settled for biting his lower lip as he stroked her arm a little in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"André…" He looked at to see his grandmother standing next to him, and he shifted a little in his position on the edge of the bed. "You have a weak stomach. Maybe you should leave this to us."

"I'm staying." His voice was firm, and for once, not ruined by a squeak. If Oscar was going to be strong and not take anything for her pain—pain that _he_ indirectly caused—then he was going to stick with her and listen to every damn thing, every single reaction Oscar had.

He felt his stomach churn as the doctor pulled out a scalpel, and he found that he couldn't stand to watch; instead, he focused on Oscar's face and felt guilt consume him as she struggled not to let her discomfort get to her. He didn't know how much it hurt, but it had to have been a lot, because his little friend didn't even try to blink back her tears.

She only muffled a few sobs and screams and moans into the pillow—his pillow, he realized—and even though his job was to hold her down if she started to move around, he never once had to do anything. He wanted to tell the doctor that he wouldn't need to do it, because Oscar had long ago been broken of the habit of fighting back, but he said nothing about it, instead opting to hold her hand and wipe the sweat (and sometimes, blood from where she had hit her head) from her face.

Her breathing was harsh and fast, and each ragged breath tore through him straight to his heart. This was his fault, he reminded himself as she squeezed his hand so hard he thought she might be trying to break it. If only he wasn't so sensitive, he wouldn't have taken everything she said as a barbed insult, and maybe he wouldn't have challenged her to a fencing match.

If only he hadn't picked her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then maybe she wouldn't have mentioned horseback riding. Then nothing would have happened. She would still be in one piece, and she wouldn't be crying; he gingerly found her own handkerchief in her pocket, all too aware of her slight, almost unnoticeable curves, and pressed the warm dry cloth against her cheeks, wiping away the flood of tears.

When it was all over, Doctor Lassone packed up his things, and Nanny kissed Oscar's cheek and smoothed back her damp, sweat-soaked hair before helping the doctor to the door. André was left alone with his dear friend, and he gingerly wiped away a few tears with his calloused fingers.

She sighed and kept her eyes closed until her breathing returned to almost normal. "I'm glad I didn't pass out again," she murmured.

André was certain that her father had something to do with her reasoning, because nobody in their right mind would want to be awake for such a painful procedure. "Do you want to go back to your room, or do you want to stay here?"

"W-well, I'm going to have to get cleaned up sooner or later, and…I suppose it might be best if I went back upstairs. The sooner I can wash my face, the better," she said, half-sitting, rubbing at her eyes with the hand he wasn't holding. "I wouldn't want Father to think I was _crying_, you know."

He noticed her flushed cheeks, red from her tears, and felt guilt gnaw at him again as he slid off of the edge of the bed.

She moved to slide off of the edge of the bed, too, but he stopped her, a hand on each of her shoulders.

"What are you doing, Oscar?"

"I'm going upstairs." Her expression was strained; she still wasn't feeling well, and she had every right not to be.

"You're not walking there."

"Fine, I'll walk on _one foot_ up there."

"You're not _hobbling_ there, either!" He let go of her and sighed, his gaze avoiding hers for the moment. "Look…Oscar… I wasn't much of a man earlier. Please let me do this." His eyes found hers again and when she didn't protest, he scooped her up in his arms, mindful of her newly set leg, and set off for the upstairs, ignoring the gaping maids and servants adorning the stairwell.

Once he had deposited her in a chair in her foyer, he smiled at her. "Your father shouldn't be back for at least an hour, so… I'll get you some water so you can get cleaned up, and he'll think that you were maybe reading a book the entire time Dr. Lassone was fixing you up."

He did as promised and brought her some hot water and a cloth to wash her hair and herself, seeing as how she'd sweated a lot during the procedure, and set out some clothes for her, careful to pick pants that he knew would slide over her leg without any trouble. Then he left again and waited anxiously in the hall for her to call him back inside.

He didn't know how long he waited… nearly an hour, though, he estimated, before Oscar's tired voice came through her door and fell against his ears. He was inside her room in an instant, just in time to see her hobbling off towards her bedroom, placing almost all her weight on her good leg.

"Oscar," he whined, his voice cracking as he put an arm out to steady her before she could tip over, keeping his hand there lest she have any other problems. "I would have carried you, you know."

"I know," she answered, looking much better in clean clothes. Her dark blonde hair, still wet from a quick washing, hung about her face in messy curls, mussed up with absolutely no sense of order.

She looked terribly cute like that, he thought, but he didn't have time to dwell on it before they reached the bed and she sat on the edge of it and smiled at him, punching him lightly in the arm.

"That's why I didn't let you know ahead of time. How am I supposed to get better fast if I'm an invalid?" She shook her head to get the wet curls off of her neck—with little success—and turned down her covers.

"Your hair needs brushed," he told her, taking the few steps over to her dressing table to grab the hairbrush that sat there. "I'll do it." He was firm about it, making sure that she could not take the brush out of his grasp, and he was happy that his voice didn't crack when he spoke.

"Fine," she answered, "but hurry it up. I don't want Father to come in and see this, or he'll think I'm acting like a girl."

He nodded and began to brush out the tangles in her hair, starting at the bottom and working his way up. "I'm sorry, Oscar," he mumbled, the squeak rearing its ugly head again. "It's my fault this happened. I wasn't thinking."

She was silent for a long moment, and the only sound that pierced through the stillness was that of the brush catching on the small knots in her still-damp hair. Finally, she spoke, sounding more humble than he'd probably ever heard her, before. "It's not your fault, André. I shouldn't have pushed you. I shouldn't have teased you either."

"It's okay, Oscar." He quietly threaded his fingers through her hair to undo a particularly annoying knot. "I'm the one that let it get to me." His voice cracked again, and he flushed in embarrassment; even though Oscar smiled at it, she said nothing, and he felt relieved.

A few minutes passed and neither of them spoke. Oscar shifted a little bit on the bed, impatiently, and kept peering over toward the window. "Are you done, yet? I think Father and Mother will be home soon. They don't care for the company of the de Donnés family, much."

"There," he said after only a short delay, setting the brush aside and running his hands through her hair to make sure it looked nice. "I'm done. Now get in bed, I think I hear the team pulling in the drive."

Sure enough, not even ten minutes later, General de Jarjayes was in Oscar's room, and luckily for her, she was sitting calmly in bed, a thin sheet pulled over her, a book in her hands, pretending to read as if nothing had phased her all day.

"My son!"

André sighed from his new position by the window as Oscar's father stood by her bed, a wide grin on his face.

"I heard what happened," he said. "Refusing pain medication and not fainting? I'm proud of you, Oscar!"

He didn't know what made him feel more ill—Oscar's father praising her for letting herself hurt so badly, or the fact that Oscar was now smiling, looking exceptionally happy at her father's praise.

She was practically glowing.

He tuned her father out, and after a few minutes, sighed with relief to see him leaving. He would never understand the man, he decided. How could he look at his beautiful _daughter_ and smile and laugh and say he was _proud_ of the fact that she had been in severe pain?

He walked over to her bed and leaned over to push her hair out of her face as he reached for her book, ignoring her half-hearted attempts to swat his hand away. "Stop it, Oscar," he said. "I know you're tired."

"Exhausted, actually." She shrugged, "But I wasn't going to say it." She burrowed down under her sheet and let her head fall back against her pillow tiredly.

André pulled her blankets up from the foot of the bed and draped them over her. "I don't know if you want them all," he admitted. "But here are most of them."

"Thank you." She took a long, deep breath and sighed, her eyelids threatening to close against her will. "I'm sorry, I'm really tired…"

"It's okay, Oscar. Get some sleep. You need it."

"Mmm…" Her eyes closed, and she appeared to be asleep within a few moments.

He found her hand underneath the blankets and squeezed it, rubbing the back of it reassuringly as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against her temple where she had struck her head earlier. "Sleep well, Oscar," he whispered, touching her hair lightly. "I guess you are a bigger man than me after all…for now." He crinkled his nose at his own words, feeling stupid for saying them. Oscar was very clearly feminine, but…she had acted with a lot more bravery and courage than he would have if he were in the same position.

"Good," she murmured in return, giving him quite a scare. He looked down at her face and saw her blue eyes mostly closed, a smile playing around her lips. She was playing with him…again.

"Oscar!" he gasped, his voice cracking and squeaking worse than it ever had in his sudden nervousness. "I thought you were asleep!"

"I was…" Her voice was laced with sleepiness. "But you woke me up with your…" She trailed off and buried her face in her pillow, taking a deep breath. "You woke me up with your _sappiness_. It's not like I almost died or anything..."

"I'm sorry." He flushed in embarrassment, though he was secretly glad Oscar hadn't tried to kill him.

"You're forgiven… You admitted I am a bigger man than you, after all…"

"I said, _for now_ you are!" He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I didn't say—"

"André," she whispered.

"Yeah?" Nothing could stop him speaking faster than her saying his name.

"That's all that matters. Now, after my leg…heals… I'll let you challenge me to another fencing match. And then we'll see who the bigger man is."

"…Okay."

"Now be quiet so I can sleep." She grinned sleepily at him and promptly fell asleep.

He knew she slept like a rock, but he decided to stay, just for a few more minutes—that would probably turn into hours, though he refused to admit it—to make sure she would be all right. She was, but he stayed there anyway, until the sound of his own breathing matched hers, breath for breath.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

I know, the ending's terribly corny. But at least it ended. I didn't think I was going to be able to finish this thing up… I kept forgetting what I was writing, and where the direction was going, and then I realized I didn't know how to end it. So here you go! Oscar and André were 13 and 14 years old respectively, in this story. Since Oscar doesn't really do anything until 1770, when Marie Antoinette comes to France, there's a whole year there where supposedly nothing happens. So I had to make something happen. Feedback is greatly appreciated!


	5. Taste

**Desperately****  
By: Manna

* * *

  
**

…_**xOx…**_

_**Taste**_

Even though she was used to seeing it now, she could hardly believe it. There was blood on her hands.

The unveiling of the portrait—the last gift she would give to her family—had been absolutely ruined. She felt like crying. She had run from her parents, from Nanny, from Armand, and especially from André. This blood, this consumption, this _lung disease_ would ruin everything!

They all had to know, now… They all to suspect what had plagued her for so long, the reason her face was so pale and her body so thin.

She couldn't stop the hot tears from falling. Never, in her 33 years of life, had she felt so weak, so drained. She liked to think that the pain was unbearable, but she sighed to herself and closed her eyes, the salty tears mixing with the bitter tang of her blood. If it was unbearable, she thought, she would not be where she was.

Just a little longer, she told herself. Her strength, not all of it, but enough, would return if she waited awhile. She didn't even have the energy to wipe away the mixture of blood and tears.

Her blood was splattered across her face, covering her lips except where the trail of her tears had disappeared into her mouth. Blood covered the front of her blouse, her pillow, and even the blanket on top of her bed.

Her breathing was harsh and ragged, but she felt strangely calm.

Was she going to die like this, alone in her room surrounded by nothing but blood? Suddenly, she wanted André back; she regretted sending him away with the maids.

She couldn't die! Not alone! She tried to sit up, tried to call out to him, but her body refused to cooperate. Only a rasping, "A…n…" came out, and she choked on her own saliva, bitter with the addition of her blood and salty thanks to her tears.

My God… My God! How much more of this could she take? She couldn't do so much as stand, but she could cough, and she did just that, coughing so hard she felt as if her lungs would join the blood splattered across her bedcovers. Each one ripped through her body like a carriage pulled by eight runaway robust stallions. It hurt, it hurt, and all she could do was fist her hand weakly by her mouth in a futile attempt to keep more blood from ending up on the bed.

Where was André? She really wanted him, now. She wanted comforting words, a hand on her back, someone to tell her that it would all end soon.

_This too shall pass._

It would, oh, she knew it would, and the thought both saddened and cheered her heart. To know that it would happen again and again until her death scared her, but to know that she would live to see André again, to see the faces of her parents, of Nanny, of Alain and François and the rest of her beloved French Guards… It brought her joy.

Her face felt both hot and cold; the tears had stopped flowing, leaving clear trails through the crimson stains on her lips and chin.

She shook for a long time, and her heart thudded painfully against her ribcage. How had she gotten so fragile? Had she always been that way? No, no, she wasn't… A fragile commander would have failed in the eyes of the French Guard. She was a strong person stuck inside a dying body.

A knocking sounded on her door, and a familiar warm, concerned voice filtered through. "Oscar? Oscar, are you all right?"

The tears came again, completely unbidden; nothing could stop them from falling at his unfailing loyalty to her, at the love she knew he had kept inside for his entire life. Love for her…

She continued to cry, letting her eyes close when she felt too weak to keep them open. She wasn't worthy of such love, she thought. Not after twenty years of pretending it wasn't there. Not after he had been blinded because of her stupidity, not after he had confessed and she had been too scared and intimidated by it to respond properly!

A love so big, so expansive that it could not even be contained in the night sky in the same way as the stars! How could anyone, any man, look at her and love her, continue to love her, for everything she was, for everything she stood for? It had to be a lie, a joke, a _mistake_.

Nobody could love her, could they?

How was it possible? How could he look and her and see someone that he wanted to be with forever?

No one in their right mind would love the obstinate thirteen-year-old she had been, fist-fighting with her childhood friend because he told the truth. But twenty years…

Twenty years. Then he had loved her then, and he had loved the eighteen-year-old who saw Marie Antoinette's loneliness and heartache, and he had loved the colonel who had angrily demanded a duel at the loss of a child's life, and he had loved her drunk and angry and happy and sad. He had loved and loved and she had… She had ignored.

It was there all along! From the moment his fingers closed around her own on the riverbank after their fight, he had shown it in every gesture, in every sentence, in every question and concern.

Her fingers were trembling. Oh, his love was beautiful, far more than anything material.

"Oscar? Oscar, please talk to me later… I need to know you are okay."

She heard his footsteps as he left and she shuddered, wanting to reach out for him. No, no, he couldn't leave her, he had promised not to! She had never been more frightened in her life.

She had been afraid to duel de Guemènè, frightened at the prospect of possibly having to take another human life, and, perhaps to an extent, of losing her own. But this… The coughing and her deteriorating condition… It was something she could not fight against with a sword, with a pistol. It was attacking her from the inside out, and, scarier than the pain, than the blood and the chills she felt even in the heat of July, was the fact that it was consuming her and there was nothing she could do.

She laid on her bed, curled slightly, unable to move herself for a long time. She thought about all of the things André had said and done for her, and all of them had been out of love. She thought of his warm smile and his eyes, of his rough hands and the look on his face when he had seen her in a dress for the first—and last—time.

How had she not seen it? Her chest burned painfully at the thought that it had been there all along, and she had not seen it. Oh, it was love, it was always love! They had almost drowned, he had taken her hand, he held her back before she could do something she would regret, he told her she looked beautiful, she tripped in the dress and he smiled sweetly… He helped her home from a bar fight, carrying her all the way by himself, he wore the clothes of the Black Knight, he lost an eye, he smiled and said he was glad it hadn't been hers, he held her tight and tried to kiss her and shouted his love over and over…

He saluted her from the back of a group of men in the barracks that belonged to the French Guards Company B.

And oh, the love, the love, the love the love the love…

It had been in his eyes, in his smile, in his hands, in his words, his actions, and in his heart!

She fell in and out of consciousness, dozing for snatches of time before she would awaken, her eyelashes fluttering softly against her bloodstained cheeks. But it was always him she thought about as she laid there, cold and scared and alone even though André had not left the house.

She loved him, too. And she told him, had confessed it as her heart pounded in her chest nervously, had felt it skip in fear as he held her, crying in relief, in happiness. Those had been tears of love.

But love… how did one show it? Why didn't she know how to show it like he had been for the last twenty years? Just kissing him, stroking his hair, telling him she loved him… It wasn't enough! It couldn't be enough! Not after all he had done, after all he had said, after twenty years of waiting for someone like her—someone who certainly didn't deserve love.

Finally, she was able to move again, and she stripped the soiled blankets and pillowcases from the bed. She threw them into a hamper with her shirt and breeches and replaced them with fresh, clean linens, pulling on a clean blouse and pants after she had rinsed the remnants of her struggle from her face and lips.

She had gone down to dinner against her better judgment; she still felt weak. But making an appearance was important. The portrait would be her last gift to her family. They had begged her to sit for one like that for most of her life, and she had always refused. She knew they liked it, and it pleased her that her gift was accepted. But this dinner…

With a heavy heart, she sighed and looked at André, trying to put all of her love and all of her feelings into that one look. But her head ached and she felt infinitely tired. Discreetly, she asked him to come to her rooms later. He looked confused, but agreed, and she cast her eyes over the food, over all of the delicious things that the common people of France—that, oh _God_, Rosalie and Bernard and Alain and Francois—would never savor.

Her heart seemed to tear at the thought, and it only intensified her feelings about what she would certainly do on the morrow.

"Oscar, are you feeling better, now?" her mother asked, and she felt tears spring to her eyes.

"Yes, Mother… Much better." Her voice was soft, but she forced it to sound in control. It worked, because Madame de Jarjayes smiled and nodded, accepting without question her daughter's answer.

She felt miserable, and she tried to eat, but even though the food was no doubt amazing, she tasted nothing. She spent more time watching the cutlery of her father and her mother as they slowly and silently ate. The silence, she hated it. Didn't they know, couldn't they tell? She was dying!

She was dying and she loved André and her passion for France was going to turn her against the nobility—even those she loved. This was to be her last meal with them, with the General and his wife, with the man who had made a decision that had given her a life unlike any other woman's, with the woman that had been gentle and sweet and caring and had listened and guided and comforted without saying a thing.

_Mother_, she wanted to shout. _Mother! I love you! Father, I love you! Can't you see how much I love you? Don't you know? You do know, don't you? Please, please, please tell me that you know I love you!_

But she remained quiet, bowing her head to hide the tears that escaped as she set her fork down beside her almost untouched plate.

…_**xOx…**_

She didn't know what she was doing.

It was the only thing left, the only thing she could do to show him how much she loved him. Would it be enough? She didn't feel as if it could be, but she knew nothing. Fear coursed down her spine, causing her to shiver, and she unintentionally pulled away from him.

She was trembling, but he caught her hand and pulled her back to him, holding her against his chest, letting the warmth he had to offer surround her. She had never done anything like this before, had tried to keep those thoughts from her mind because she knew she would never be allowed to marry.

But now… Now things were different. He loved her unconditionally. He loved the little girl who pretended to be a boy, the woman that dressed like a man, the cold distant colonel, the stern commander, and the fragile, sick woman. Now, she was going to die, and he wasn't blind yet but maybe he would be soon. She would never, ever marry, not unless it was him! She would never marry another because nobody could ever love her like that!

"Don't be afraid," he soothed, holding her gently as if she would break. She felt her heart flutter in her chest, felt herself melting against him.

She was afraid! She didn't know what to expect, didn't know anything about that sort of thing because she had never been taught, and if she had, she had long ago forgotten about it, thinking she would never need to know.

This was what she wanted… This was what she wanted to do for him, for herself, for _them_. They would never be allowed to marry in a church without a permit—something that, after the next morning, they would never be able to get. No, this was it, this was their only chance!

Who needed an earthly king's permission to marry? Surely, God would not condemn them because they were in love and had been for their entire lives! This was God's destiny for them, perhaps. They were made for one another! They needed one another, and she wanted nothing more than to become his wife.

_God, God… Please, bless this union between two lost hearts who have finally found one another._

Suddenly, she was on the bed and he was removing his clothes. Her fingers fumbled with her own blouse, with her boots, her breeches. She couldn't stop trembling. Was it the excitement? Nervousness? Hope? Love?

It was everything.

He kneeled by the bed and took her hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing every one of her shaking fingers. He kissed the back of her hand and stroked her fingers with his thumb, squeezing gently. "Oscar?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes?" Her voice was small and sounded frightened, her cheeks red with embarrassment because nobody had ever seen her so exposed and so very female before.

"Are you certain this is what you want?"

She nodded without delay, a small smile crossing her lips. "Yes."

He smiled gently and stood, lowering himself over her on the bed, searching in the dark for her lips. When he found them, he pressed his against hers softly, and her heart cried out with joy. This man, why had she been so blind? He cared about her so much… He knew she was nervous, was afraid… And he would go slow and be patient…

Just for her.

Tears welled up in her eyes but did not spill over.

She kissed him back, and after a long moment he pulled away so that she could catch her breath; while he waited, he smiled and ran his fingers through her hair, tucking a few wild strands back out of her face.

"Do you trust me, Oscar?" he asked, bending over her to kiss her, covering her eyes and her cheeks with little tokens of his affection.

She almost choked on her emotions, as thick and substantial as they were. "I do, André…" she whispered, her voice steady, a few tears spilling from her eyes as she let a trembling hand rest on his shoulder while the other stroked his face, finding his blind eye hidden beneath his hair; she ran her fingertips over the scar there. "I do!"

He smiled, his own hands shaking just slightly as he let one of his calloused hands run down the side of her face and neck to her breasts, and further, to her ribs and the curve of her hip and her thigh, her calf, and finally, her foot. Lightly, his fingertips raked across the bottom of her foot, then across her toes, and she couldn't help but giggle at the sensation.

Setting her foot down, he kissed her again and stroked her cheek. "Don't be afraid…"

…_**xOx…**_

She looked over at him across the bed that they shared. He had tears in his eyes, and she wanted to kiss them away despite the fact that tears were running down her face, too. God had granted them his blessing, she thought, and now…

Now she was the wife of this handsome, gentle, sensitive, kind, considerate, patient, _loving_ man. Her tears slowed slightly at the sight of him under her blankets. She had tried to memorize everything about him. The sharp slant of his jaw, his chin, his chest that she had rested against, his shoulders and arms, strong from his work in the stables… The smell of his skin, salty like tears, but warm like the sun… The look of love, of appreciation, of adoration in his eye…

Oh, how she loved this man!

She smiled at him, content to gaze at what she had been missing her entire life, the final piece to the puzzle that was Oscar François…Grandier.

"My husband…" she whispered to him, her voice full of awe and hope and contentment.

His eyes softened and he sat up, taking her in his arms to kiss her again, softly. "My wife," he murmured, clearly pleased to be saying it; she wondered how long he had wanted to speak those words.

She opened her mouth to speak—she had so much to say—but she felt it coming. Her tears started again as her eyes widened in fright and horror, and she pulled away.

No, not now! _Not_ _now_!

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and hunched over as it came, holding a pillow to her mouth. A long, wracking cough assaulted her body, and her chest felt as if it was being crushed as she sobbed and coughed and choked at the same time.

_No_… No, not now…

"Oscar?" Concerned, she felt him sit beside her and wrap his warm arm around her before he tried pulling her closer to him.

She complied, but her body was shaking so badly that she wondered if perhaps she would simply fall apart.

"What happened, Oscar?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

She could only cry, and when she felt fingers on her cheeks, gently wiping away her tears, she could only cry harder.

He kissed the corner of her mouth and pulled back, his expression one filled with puzzlement and shock. "Oscar…"

"I'm sorry, André!" she burst out, wiping her mouth on the clean edge of the pillow before she threw it to the floor and huddled against him. "I'm sorry…"

"Sorry for what, love?" He stroked her hair and held her, startled by the cold temperature of her body on such a warm summer night. "Sorry for what? For having such bitter-tasting tears?"

Her breath caught in her throat and she sighed, the sound raspy and terrible in her own ears. Was he joking with her? Trying to lighten the mood? She knew he had tasted her blood. "For not telling you that I am dying," she whispered, both ashamed and frightened.

He was silent for a long moment, but when he did speak, his words were warm. "Do you remember the other day, when you asked me not to leave you?" She nodded against his chest, and he continued. "What was my response?"

She hesitated, but she remembered his answer. "You said that you would stay with me until death…"

"That's right." He pulled her away from him and kissed her gently, removing the last trace of blood from her face with his lips before he pulled her back into his arms.

She had never felt safer.

"I still feel the same," he reassured her, rubbing her back, burying his face in her long hair. "Nothing will change that."

She stayed there for a long time; perhaps only minutes passed in his arms, perhaps an hour before she pulled away. He let her go reluctantly, and she looked up at him and smiled, outlining his jaw with her hand. "I love you," she murmured. "More than anything…"

"Anything?" he asked, and she assumed he was attempting to lighten the dark mood again. "Isn't that a bit far, Oscar?"

"No…" She cut him off. "I mean it." She looked away from him for a few moments before she turned her head to catch his gaze again. "André… After tomorrow, I won't return here ever again." He said nothing; he only waited for her to continue. "I'm not going to fire on the citizens, and I'm not going to order Company B to, either." Suddenly, her voice was clogged with tears and hope and fear. "I guess you could say I will become a betrayer, André."

"Is this what you feel is right?"

"Yes, with all my heart…" She hugged him then, throwing her arms around him and burying her face into the crook of his neck, feeling his curly hair brush against her cheek. "Will you…go with me?"

He squeezed her back, afraid of using too much pressure, and sighed. "Oscar, I am your husband… I will follow you wherever you go. I'll be wherever you are no matter where it is."

"Isn't it usually the other way around?" A smile found its way to her face; a husband following his wife was not something a person saw every day!

"It doesn't matter," he said. "So long as I am with you."

"André…"

"Our Company B will want to follow you anyway, Oscar. I would not doubt if they asked you to lead them on the other side of the fight since we will be joining it anyway."

She swallowed. "I would be honored to do just that."

"To help create a new France?"

"Yes."

"And afterward?" His question was so simple, but the answer was complex.

"Afterward…" she sighed, kissing him lightly before pulling away. "If we are victorious, I would like to retire to the countryside and marry you and live out the rest of my life, be it six months or thirty years."

"What do you mean, _if_ we are victorious?" he asked her, his lips hovering mere centimeters away from her own. "We will be, in one way or another."

"How do you know?" she whispered, eyes as soft as his as she felt his breath on her face.

"Because," he answered, tilting his neck down to claim her lips with his own, "I can _almost _taste it."

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

There are so many notes on this that I'll be putting them in my journal instead of here. So look in my profile for the link if you're interested in knowing the method behind my madness, so to speak.

Thank you for reading! Feedback is much appreciated!


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